On Bruises and Understanding
by LaurenIsCool
Summary: Grantaire is a self-destructive, nihilistic idiot, but didn't everyone know that already? After getting into a fight with some punk from the Patron-Minette, a bloody and broken Grantaire is left to the devices of the man whose honor he was defending: his own perfect god, Enjolras. T for makeouts, violence, and language. (Does anyone even care about language anymore?)


**Prompt from Tubmlr user thatswhatshowoffsdo: In a drunken fit of self-pity, Grantaire goes out and gets in a fight, only to have Enjolras come back to nurse him despite his stupidity. **  
**There are some French words in here; you should be okay, though, even if you don't speak French. You shouldn't need to translate all of them because their meanings are obvious, but if you find it helps you might want to have Google Translate up in another tab. **

"I drink because I am ashamed, and I am ashamed because I drink."

What started the vicious cycle, Grantaire wasn't quite sure; perhaps it began with an innocent drink, or, far more likely, it was the initial shame brought on by fear of failure that led to a not-so-innocent binge. Either way, it didn't really matter what had spurred this inexorable circle in which he was living. It only mattered that he was in it now, with no evident escape. So as he tipped back the bottle of wine to find only the dregs remaining, the familiar sensation of indignity welled up in his chest and spread down to his abdomen, creating a void that he knew could be filled (and thus exacerbated) by spirits. He demanded a beer.

It was brought to him promptly, and the cool of the liquid warmed him from the inside out. A man sat down at the bar next to him.

"Grantaire, my man, come to drown out your sorrows?" Came a mocking voice from the skinny suit-clad gent next to him.

"Fuck off," was the only response the _ivrogne _could muster.

"What is it this time, huh? Your _Ange _got you down?"

"I said fuck off, asshole," insisted Grantaire angrily.

"Come on, man, lighten up!"

"What the hell do you want with me, anyway, Claquesous?"

Claquesous ordered a round for them both. "I just wanna talk."

Grantaire rolled his eyes; not being one to turn up free alcohol, though, he decided he would lend an ear, albeit unsympathetic. They downed their shots, Grantaire chasing his with beer and Claquesous with a sigh.

"Montparnasse's being a dick," deadpanned the _escroc_.

"Tell me about it," Grantaire replied, though he really wasn't interested in Claquesous' rambling.

"Well, there I was, mindin' my own business and dealin' with a customer, when all of a sudden Mr. High-And-Mighty decides to come waltzin' in and demandin' his cut. I's like, 'Scuse me? I'm kinda in the middle of somethin' here.' And he was all 'Nah, man, you owe me for last week's shortage.' That bastard musta forgot who the hell bailed him out last time he decided to get his stupid ass arrested. And then that goddamn_salaud_ thought it'd be cool to snatch the shit right outta my customer's hands. Honest to God, that asshole messes with me one more time, and I swear…" Claquesous droned, his empty threat hanging in the air.

"Sucks to be you," offered Grantaire in response, as he wasn't exactly paying attention to his inconsequential blathering.

"Damn right it sucks. I gotta admit, though, at least Montparnasse fucking acknowledges me."

Grantaire's eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the skinny punk. "What did you just say?" He growled, his voice shedding all signs of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed in order to be replaced by a dark, brooding ire.

Of course, that _crétin_ paid no mind to this. Clearly he lacked a filter between his brain and his mouth – if he even had a brain, Grantaire thought to himself – because he was now spouting shit about Enjolras.

"That bitch-ass leader you've got yourself, he must be such a pain! All that whiny little bitch does is complain about 'the system' or whatever. Seriously, I dunno why you even put up with that shit. He just yells at you when he's not yellin' at thin air."

Fury made its way into Grantaire's veins as his muscles clenched. "You damn well better take that back, you fucking _con_."

"I mean really!" Exclaimed the oblivious, and equally drunk, Claquesous, "If I were you, I'd 'a put that egomaniac _connard_ in his place by now."

Grantaire shattered his bottle against the table, making a few of the bar patrons turn to look at him. He paid no mind to this, however, as his next words came out in a terrifying hiss of a whisper: "_Enjolras is more of a man than you can ever _dream_ of being_."

Claquesous actually had the nerve to laugh. "Please! He can't even convince a bitch to fuck him, let alone convince the entire fucking country to flip upside-down."

Of course, Grantaire agreed with the latter point, but goddammit, _it was only okay when _he_ did it_.

Grantaire's chair scooted back with an audible skid and before he knew it, Claquesous was pinned against the wall and Grantaire's fist was being driven straight into his face. The entire bar dropped whatever they were doing to watch the ensuing action, but the cynic didn't care. After all, when did he care about anything, other than his beloved leader?

With a satisfying crack, the skinny man's nose was crushed into his skull. Claquesous kicked his attacker in the groin, causing him to release his grip on his collar and double over in pain; this in turn gave street-seasoned man enough time to skillfully fix his hands behind Grantaire's head and bring it down into a powerful blow from his knee.

The drunk stomped on his foot and twisted to elbow him in the chest. Claquesous, already foreseeing this action, swiftly dodged the strike and proceeded to shove Grantaire off of him. He then landed a swift kick to his ribs. This motion knocked Grantaire to the hard, unforgiving floor, where he was met with a hailstorm of fists and elbows from the thief.

Being completely drunk, Grantaire did the only thing he could think of: he curled up into a ball and took each blow. By the time they were forcibly separated by the other patrons of the bar, he was covered in blood and bruises, but his eyes told a different story. They were glowing with a mixture of ferocity and conceit that overshadowed his mangled appearance.

Lo and behold, the door swung open and none other than Enjolras himself stood in its wake. He gasped when he realized that one of his revolutionaries was sitting, spattered in blood, on the ground. He rushed up to him.

"What are you doing here?" Asked Grantaire groggily.

Enjolras ignored him entirely. "What the hell happened here?" He angrily demanded, trying his best to hide the fear in his voice.

"'M just teaching ol' Claquesous here a lesson."

"Like hell you are. Come on now, I need to get you home before the police arrive."

Little did he know that bar fights weren't an uncommon occurrence for Grantaire, and the owners had long since given up on trying to get him arrested. They would much sooner see the Patron-Minette member behind bars, so they kept Claquesous behind as Enjolras helped his friend to his feet and dragged him outside.

He let his fear and anger overflow after he had secured him into the passenger seat. "What were you even thinking?"

"I wasn't," admitted the drunk, ashamed.

Enjolras sighed. "That much is obvious. Why would you ever think it would be a good idea to get into a fight with someone like Claquesous?"

"He called you a whiny bitch."

A wave of pride washed over Enjolras as his fuming irritation ebbed, but of course, he didn't let it show on his face. He continued to scowl instead. "Did you even know what you were getting into?"

"I don't care. Nobody insults Apollo and gets away with it," stated a defiant Grantaire, hoping to cling to the last bit of dignity he had left. Tears started to fall.

Enjolras just shook his head. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Grantaire stammered.

"That. Don't call me Apollo, I'm not a god. And for Pete's sake, don't get into fights just to defend my honor! I can handle it if some scum wants to think I'm useless. I can't handle it if you keep injuring yourself like this."

"'M sorry" was all he could manage to choke out in response. Enjolras took his hand.

"Hey, you don't need to cry."

Grantaire's hand shook in his friend's. "Sorry, sorry. I can't help it." His face was flushed from the fighting, drinking, and crying, and it was scrunched up in sorrow so that it didn't resemble his usual sarcastic sneer at all.

Seeing his broken friend cry melted the look of contempt off of the leader's statuesque face.

"He said you were no better than Montparnasse."

Enjolras broke into a grin. "What the hell does he know?"

"I know, right?" Grantaire seemed calm down seeing his friend smile. He held his hand tighter.

"'Taire, I'm not saying that I want this to happen ever again, but thanks. That means a lot that you were willing to do that for me," admitted Enjolras.

"Any time," the drunken man confirmed, giving a light chuckle.

Enjolras sighed, an uneasy look returning to his face. "No, not any time, because next time you're just going to walk away."

"Not likely."

"No, you listen to me." Enjolras stated, retracting his hands. This earned a soft whimper from his friend. He was now in full-scale serious revolutionary speech mode. "Look at me. I don't want you to ever think that someone's lousy opinion of me is worth you getting hurt. Really, Grantaire, I'm flattered, but it's hardly something you need to get beat up over. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I found out I was the reason you got yourself seriously injured over some stupid dispute."

Grantaire groaned.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"Yessir."

"Good. Now I'm going to bring you back to my place and get you cleaned up, alright?"

"Enjolras, I don't think that's necessary."

"It was rhetorical question," he stated dryly, "you're coming back to my place and that's final. I'm not letting you go home and drink your pain away this time."

"Fine," muttered Grantaire. It wasn't like he actually had the strength to protest anyway.

Enjolras's face remained stoic and unreadable on the drive back to his apartment. After practically carrying his idiot up the stairs, he put him gently down on his bed. "Stay here," he instructed, as if Grantaire actually had the ability to move, as he went to fetch a warm washcloth. When he came back, he lightly brushed it over his face. Grantaire involuntarily leaned into the contact.

"Do you think anything's broken?" Asked Enjolras, applying a bandage to a cut on his forehead. Grantaire shook his head. Enjolras looked down to see that his shirt was covered in blood. "I'm going to get you a clean shirt." Grantaire almost felt his heart ache when he got up to go fetch it for him. It really has gotten bad, he decided. He can't even stand to be away from him.

He started to work on his buttons when he returned, gasping as he helped his friend out of his shirt and seeing the bruises that already littered his friend's chest. He couldn't resist; he ran his marble fingers lightly over the marks. "Why would you let him do this?" Enjolras asked in horrified awe.

Grantaire exhaled slowly and closed his eyes so he could better savor the touch. Suddenly, Enjolras's hands left his skin, and the feeling was replaced by the wet cloth. "Sorry," he murmured.

"S'alright," replied Grantaire sleepily.

He didn't even feel pain as the washcloth cleansed him of Claquesous' blood.

"Thank you," he whispered, on the verge of unconsciousness.

Enjolras didn't reply, instead reaching up to cradle Grantaire's face. His thumb rubbed in circles across his cheek.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. "I should be the one thanking you."

Grantaire opened his eyes. "Why would you ever stoop so low?" He asked earnestly, though it sounded like sarcasm when it passed his lips.

His friend repositioned himself so he was now lying next to him, his chest pressed up against Grantaire's arm. "What you did back there… that was… nice."

"I can't have people mocking your revolution."

"You don't believe in the revolution."

"I believe in you."

Enjolras sighed.

"Enjolras?"

"What?"

The alcohol had made him bold; or perhaps it was the small bit of praise he had received. Either way, there was probably some outside force working upon him when he whispered, "Would you hold me?"

Enjolras froze. For a moment, Grantaire thought he had crossed a line, and his heart sunk in his chest. But then he felt the warmth of Enjolras envelop him as he curled his arms around him. It took all his strength to turn himself so that he was face-to-face with his god and wrapped around him. Their legs entwined and all Grantaire could think was _this is it, this is the most glorious day of my life._

Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, he leaned forward until his lips were a breath away from the handsome cupid's bow of his _ange_. Both of them knew what was about to happen. While Grantaire's mind was completely blank, Enjolras's was racing as Grantaire closed the distance and captured him in a kiss. He pulled back.

Grantaire could feel his entire being shatter. He had gone too far. The only thing in this world that he wanted, the sole meaning for his existence, had just rejected him with no more than a minuscule movement. He collapsed, inside and out, and his head fell onto the pillow.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was panicking. Yes, he was extremely pleased that his friend, his cynic, had stood up for him, and in the heat of the moment he wanted nothing more than to thank him with his entire body, but the fact remained that the drunk was clearly not in his right mind, kissing him like that. Although, he had given him physical cues in pulling him right up against himself…

He saw his head fall, and knew instantly that it was alright. He surged forward to press a harder, needier kiss onto Grantaire's mouth. Grantaire's whole being came to life, his muscles reinvigorated by the electricity on his lips. He brought himself closer, deeper, moving into the kiss like it was the only thing tethering his soul to the earth.

Which, of course, it was.

His grip on Enjolras became tighter, more desperate. Tangled legs tightened as they sought out as much contact as possible. A low sigh vibrated in the back of his throat while Enjolras's mouth set a slow rolling pace that contrasted so sinfully well with the frantic grip in which they were entangled. Firm marble hands began wandering down his badly scarred back, making Grantaire gasp in pain before he could bite it back. Enjolras stopped abruptly.

Grantaire tried to show him that it was alright with a panicked kiss, but Enjolras leaned away. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's fine;" Grantaire all but begged, "don't stop. Please."

But Enjolras couldn't shake the feeling that he was taking advantage of a drunk and clouded Grantaire. Instead of continuing where they were headed, he gently ran his hands across his back in long, comforting strokes. "When you're thinking clearly."

Grantaire sighed quietly, but understood. He had waited so long for this; a few more hours wouldn't change anything.

"Sleep," commanded the leader, though he did not let go of him.

Grantaire nodded. He loosened his grip and rested his head beneath Enjolras's chin, where he could be comforted by his soothing smell as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

**I really hope you like this! (: It took a lot of time compared to my other drabbles... to be fair, though, I didn't really spend much time on those, either. ANYWHO, any & all feedback is much appreciated. **  
**Also, the first few paragraphs are based off of a character in ****_Le Petit Prince_**** that I thought applied to Grantaire quite well.**

**Peace, Love, & Cupcakes, **  
**Lauren**


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